


Hands All Over

by orphan_account



Category: Jonas Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's still a kid, mostly, soft in places where the muscle hasn't pushed past baby fat.  But his arms, as big as Joe's or bigger, his broadening shoulders.  Seeing it all at once, outside of t-shirts and tanktops, is like revealing new parts of him, like Nick's turning into a brand new person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands All Over

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a fic in PRESENT TENSE from JOE'S POV. This is huge and unsettling. Big thanks to my ever-reliable group of bffs who answer my (ridiculous and probably somewhat painful for them) Jonas-related emails.
> 
> Warnings: This has got a fair amount of dubcon, a smattering of angst as you'd expect, and it's Nick at fourteen, so be warned if that isn't your jive. Annnnd as the pairing suggests it's incest galore.

It isn't that hot out, but the sun is blindingly bright, and Joe has to squint his eyes nearly shut to see the sky above him, blue and cloudless. The chlorine in the pool is too strong, it feels like the water has barely diluted it, and his eyes are stinging on top of the glare from the sun. He's not swimming, just floating along on his back and letting the water lap at his sides.

He's the only one in the pool. Kevin was out a while earlier, but his phone rang and he was back inside the hotel before he even toweled off. It's a weekday, two o'clock, and normally there would be businessmen or businessmen's families splashing around, but it's just Joe in the water, and it's nice. Nick is out there too, or he should still be, unless he went back in with Kevin and Joe didn't notice.

"Nick," he says, his own voice sounding hollow with the water filling his ears.

He goes to stand up but he's in the deep end of the pool, so he nearly chokes when water rushes up to his nose. He treads and looks out over the pool to where Nick is sitting on a lounge chair, under the protective arm of an umbrella. Joe's contacts are out, and his glasses are under his towel, so Nick's just blurry shapes.

"Nick," he tries again, shaking his head so his hair doesn't drip into his eyes.

Nick doesn't answer him again. It's possible he's fallen asleep on the lounge chair, his eerie talent to sleep wherever and whenever, but Joe doesn't think so; he'd brought out an acoustic and there's no way he'd sleep with the threat of rogue splashes and thievery looming.

He swims over to the ladder and pulls himself up to solid ground, feet slapping wet against concrete as he wanders over to Nick. Nick's not asleep; he's got his iPod on, legs crossed at the ankles, expression serious underneath his sunglasses. Nick burns if the sun so much as glances in his direction, so the umbrella is a good precaution, as is the bottle of SPF 40 sitting untouched on the table next to him. The burn usually fades to a light tan without blistering if his mom gets at him with aloe in time, but still. It can't be fun.

"Are you getting in any time this century?" Joe asks when Nick takes out an earbud.

Nick shrugs. "I don't know."

"Well you're just ten kinds of fun, Nicholas," Joe drawls. "Way to enjoy your vacation."

"I'm having fun," Nick says defensively, and he's not wrong; to Nick, sitting around listening to music is almost shamefully luxurious. Joe's surprised he's been doing it for so long.

"I'm not. I'm by myself and there are no pool noodles."

"Oh no," Nick says sarcastically, but he's swinging his legs over the edge of the lounge chair and pushing himself up to stand. He slides his sunglasses off and sets them on the table gingerly.

He squints once he walks into the full sun of the day, shielding his eyes with his hand. Joe trails after him, almost unable to believe that Nick is giving in. Maybe he really is tired of not doing anything.

Nick walks to the pool's edge and dips a foot in, testingly. He's still wearing his red swim trunks, thighs extra pale next to the bright color, and his white t-shirt, and Joe knows he'll totally go into the water like that.

"Working on your farmer's tan, I see."

Nick's shoulders go rigid and he strips his white shirt off right there. He's still Nick, though, which means he can't just wad it up and throw it in the direction of their stuff. He walks back to the table and takes his time folding it and sets it next to his sunglasses. Joe's too busy marveling at the fact that Nick's given in to peer pressure twice, that it still _works_ , to say anything.

Nick stalks back to the pool and starts to get in, but he only gets in as far as his knees before he stops and frowns at Joe over his shoulder.

"It's cold," he complains.

"It's like eighty."

Nick rolls his eyes and cautiously wades forward a little more, water reaching just above his knees. "The pool isn't heated. Try like sixty."

Watching his brother get into the pool like a fussy cat is simultaneously hilarious and giving Joe unkind ideas that are basically his duty as the older brother to fulfill. "You know what the problem is," he says breezily, walking past Nick down the pool steps until he's in up to his chest and idly treading water through his hands. Nick lifts his eyebrows at him. "You have to go in all at _once_."

He's quick – he has to be, it's Nick – and Nick has a split second to realize Joe is grabbing at him, just enough time for his eyes to widen. Then they're both underwater, Joe dragging him toward the deep end. This is probably the hundredth time Joe's dunked Nick against his will, and he still flails the same as the first time, eel-slippery in Joe's arms, legs kicking out and twisting. Joe's almost laughing underwater, in danger of choking.

He lets Nick come up for air. Well, _lets_ is an overstatement. Nick's surprisingly strong, stronger than the last time Joe did this, maybe last summer. He nearly gets away, and Joe plays it off like he's letting him surface to breathe, but he keeps his arms anchored tight around Nick's waist as they bob in the water, coughing.

"You suck," Nick says, sounding clogged.

"You love it," he says, sucking in a breath before he drags them back under. He feels bad when he hears Nick's quick gasping breath as they're submerged, but he's bizarrely fascinated by Nick's new strength, the way he doesn't really fit in Joe's grasp anymore.

He used to be able to throw him around, he and Kevin both. Nick always got ticked off but he was resigned to it. But now Nick's elbowing him hard enough to hurt and wrenching away from Joe.

Joe knows he's going to be sore, maybe bruised from Nick's sharp elbows and all of his thrashing. Nick's hacking and sputtering, and Joe's not much better off.

"That was so not cool," Nick says, sounding pretty mad, but when Joe paddles in close to him he doesn't splash off in a huff. Nick sniffs, trying to clear the chemical-laden water from his finicky sinuses.

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"If it makes you feel any better I think you bruised my kidney." Nick scowls and pushes soppy curls back from his face. "No, for real. Those are some guns, Nicholas."

He reaches out and fits his palm around Nick's bicep, squeezing for emphasis, and he's startled by the lack of give, of softness. Nick's arm is taut with muscle, defined by it, and it's even more obvious when Nick flexes as he tries to pull away. Joe drops his hand immediately, not wanting to push his luck anymore, but he wants to feel it again. See exactly how much muscle Nick managed to build up when Joe hadn't been paying attention.

"Look at you," he says, impressed.

"Whatever," Nick mumbles. "We swimming, or are you going to try and drown me again?"

Joe is somewhat entranced by the way Nick's biceps look as he paddles through the water, headed all the way to the deep end. Nick's always been active, perfecting his golf swing and hitting the batting cages with an enthusiasm normally found in five year olds at a toy store. But every time Joe had seen him with his shirt off he looked like a weedy, growing kid, uncomfortable in his own body half the time. And it was only a few years ago that he'd been terrifyingly skinny, every rib and every knob of his spine in stark relief.

He's still a kid, mostly, soft in places where the muscle hasn't pushed past baby fat. But his arms, as big as Joe's or bigger, his broadening shoulders. Seeing it all at once, outside of t-shirts and tanktops, is like revealing new parts of him, like Nick's turning into a brand new person.

"Fifty bucks says I can do more laps than you," Joe says, because he's got to do something that isn't staring at his little brother. Plus the fastest way to distract Nick is to push the button of his fierce competitiveness.

Sure enough, Nick's eyes narrow and his chin juts out. "You really want to take that bet?"

"Oh, I'm sure."

He positions himself next to Nick, ready to push off the side of the pool and lose miserably. He's better at endurance than Nick, has always been the better runner and swimmer by default, but Nick's sheer will and hatred of losing is probably going to beat him. Even if their little competition means Nick is going to pass out at the end.

"Go," Nick says, and Joe draws in a huge breath.

Nick's already ahead.

–

They're in L.A. for a few days, which is great, mostly because it's _for a few days_ and then they're going home. It's just one last round of press until they're on vacation, and Joe's already going stir-crazy with impatience. The last two days seem tortuously long, and the longer he sits and shakes his knee, or taps his fingers on the table, the more sidelong, irritated glances Nick cuts him.

The last day is the worse. Joe's shaking the whole table he's sitting at; his spine literally feels like it's vibrating. His dad gives him a smoothie and tells him to take a break, and Nick could use the same instructions, because he's starting to fume.

"Smoothie?" Joe asks, holding it out, the straw pointed at Nick's unimpressed face.

"No thanks," Nick says snottily. "I don't need anything special. I'm fine with water."

Joe's about to tell Nick exactly where he can put his water when their dad is back, Kevin trailing behind him.

"We finish this, there's another phone interview, and then we can go home for the day," he says, looking exhausted. It's pathetic that their idea of going home means back to a hotel. Anywhere with a bed, really.

"Great." Joe pops up from his seat and aims for the trashcan when he throws his smoothie, and he makes it, but it was a little fuller than he'd expected.

"Joe!" Nick sounds scandalized; he goes over and inspects the wall, where a few drips of Blackberry Bliss ended up. "You can't just _do that_ ," Nick says.

Joe's flaming with embarrassment, knowing that Kevin's watching him, that dad's there doing the same, and that he's getting chewed out by his little brother and not either of them. He doesn't _need_ chewing out. He knows he should have walked the five feet to the trashcan. He's not going to do that again. Probably.

"Sorry," Joe mutters, and grabs the already soggy napkins he'd gotten with his smoothie earlier. "Here."

Nick doesn't move over so Joe can clean it up, he just grabs the napkins and starts scrubbing vigorously.

"Boys," dad says as a reminder of where they are, maybe chastisement for Joe.

"I'm coming," Nick says, giving the wall one last scrub. It must not pass his muster, because he sighs, and when he turns around and looks at Joe, his eyes are narrowed.

Great.

Vacation can't come soon enough.

–

Their interview with a local station goes, well, hilariously. Nick hasn't stopped blushing since they left the building, and he keeps looking out of the car window like the commercial streets of L.A. are the most fascinating things ever created.

"Hey, Nicholas," Joe says, knocking Nick's ankle with his toes. Nothing. " _Nick_."

Kevin looks up from the magazine he's paging through long enough to give Joe a look, eyebrows raised. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

In the window's reflection, Joe can see Nick chew at his lower lip. "You'd think it was the first time a girl said he was cute." He gasps, like he's shocked. "Oh, wait. It was a _lady_. Wow, Nick J. What can I say? I'm just, I'm jealous. You're so sexy even the MILFs want on it."

Dad's up front and the A/C is up on high, so there's not much chance of having his ass handed to him. Which is good, because Kevin's right; he's not stopping anytime soon. Nick's beet-red and deer in headlights expression is like catnip, and Joe wants to roll around in it for a while.

Kevin sighs and goes back to his magazine, but Joe saw him plastering on the same generic but slightly incredulous smile Joe did when the anchor started in on Nick. It was harmless – she probably thought he was _adorable_ , this child prodigy calling her ma'am – but something about the way she leaned over in her nice pinstriped suit and rubbed at his forearm seemed dirty. Nick's most obvious tell was the way his eyes widened, and then there was his absolute refusal to look at her for the rest of the interview. Kevin fielded most of the questions after that.

"She was just being nice," Nick says to the window.

" _Really_ nice," Joe agrees. "Did she give you her number?"

Nick itches at his nose and drops his hand back down, gripping at his knee. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I bet the ladies love it when you're modest."

This ridiculous grin is stretching across his face, and he honestly can't help it. His baby brother was called a heartbreaker, "I bet you're such a heartbreaker," on national – okay, not national, but still – television by a fully grown woman, and she didn't even seem sarcastic. Nick. A _heartbreaker_.

He tries seeing it, whatever that anchor saw. He looks past the fact that the shirt Nick's wearing used to be Kevin's, and that he demanded mom iron it that morning before they left. He looks past the hair Nick can't decide if he wants to embrace or shear off in frustration. He still sees his brother, too serious and painfully self-conscious.

Nick's reflection is faded; it comes and goes with the sunlight, disappearing completely when there's harsh glare. What he can see is just the panes of him, the hair that curls over his ears, the mouth that he's still chewing red. The car's fallen silent but for the whirr of traffic outside and the A/C they should have checked out because it keeps rattling.

"Nick?"

"What?" Nick asks testily, glancing at Joe back over his shoulder. There's one curl that's determined to fall over his forehead no matter how many times he pushes it back. Joe hopes he won't cut it.

"Sorry if I embarrassed you." Nick's surprise is so genuine his mouth opens a little, showing a hint of sharp and slightly crooked white teeth.

"It's fine," Nick says.

Joe waits a beat, until Nick is distracted enough to look out through the window again.

"You _are_ pretty cute," he says, mock-thoughtfully. "You should work it. Own it. _Ow_ , hey!"

He rubs at his smarting thigh, which doesn't stop hurting for another five minutes. Nick's got some arm.

–

It's finally their week off, and Joe's taking advantage of it by doing absolutely nothing. Kevin is all but camping out at friends' houses, and Joe doesn't care how irritated Nick gets or how many guilt trips he gives, he's not working on music. Mostly he sleeps until noon, plays Halo until his wrists ache, hassles Frankie, and eats anything his mom puts in front of him.

Doing nothing gets boring around day three. He tries to convince his mom to take him shopping, but she claims he owns enough shoes to outfit an army. Eventually he gets bored enough to knock on Nick's door, quick shave and a haircut rap, and swings it open without waiting for an answer. Kevin would bite his head off for it, but Nick's used to him.

Nick is on his bed, predictably with a guitar on his lap. He's not playing, and he gives Joe an expectant and slightly exasperated look.

"Writing another masterpiece?" Joe asks, going over to Nick's desk and rummaging through his cologne. He's got, like, three bottles, and Joe considers that shameful.

"Playing _Blackbird_ ," Nick corrects him, gently putting the guitar down on his pillow like it's an infant.

"Can you be parted for an hour?"

"Why?" Nick asks dubiously, but he's getting off the bed.

"One on one," Joe grins. "Basketball."

"Are you sure? Last time didn't go so well for you," Nick says dryly.

"Lies," Joe scoffs.

"You scored two points."

Of course Nick remembers. Joe forgot about the game almost as soon as it was over, but knowing Nick it went down on some sort of scorecard somewhere. "Are you really going to miss the perfect opportunity to rub my face in it again?"

"I didn't say I wouldn't play," and honestly, sometimes it's almost too easy to get Nick to do what he wants.

\--

Joe's sweating in the midday heat with no wind to cool him off. The back yard is surrounded by trees, but with no breeze all they can offer is shade. His headband felt scratchy, so he ripped it off and tossed it aside early in the game, but now he's kind of wishing he had it to hold his hair away from his face. Frankie was supposed to referee, but he went inside after five minutes. There's A/C and popsicles inside, so Joe can't really blame him.

Nick's heat-flushed too, spots of color high on his cheeks. He's just wearing a tanktop and shorts, and Joe in his stifling jeans and t-shirt envies him the foresight.

His muscles bunch as he lobs the ball at the basket, popped up on his toes. The ball rolls along the rim for a tense half-second before dropping down and whooshing through the ratty net.

"What am I up to, Nick?" Joe calls loftily as Nick chases down the ball. He's _ahead_ , and he's lording it over Nick as hard as he can. Nick's eyes have been narrowing since Joe's first basket and now he's in this angry squint that makes him look like he's got a headache.

"Ten," Nick says tersely, cutting sharply left when Joe goes to try and knock the ball away from him. When Joe follows and tries again, Nick bodychecks him so hard Joe gasps and his chest hurts. It's the second time he's done it, and the first time Joe put it down to clumsiness, too much motion in close quarters, but this was definitely deliberate.

"Hey," Joe protests, completely unimpressed. "What the heck?" He stops and just stands there, staring at Nick while he dribbles the ball, rubbery boings like a pulse.

"Sorry," Nick says, and he might mean it, but he's acting like a little jerk and Joe is torn between being hurt and annoyed. Nick's usually a fair player, and he gets bent out of shape if people so much as blur a line when it comes to the rules, but he's also the world's most competitive fourteen year old ever and he takes every loss personally. "Are we going to play?" he asks, still dribbling the ball.

"Why, so you can knock me out when I win?"

Nick bites his lower lip and looks up at the net like it's totally fascinating. "I'm only behind two points," he says. "You might not win."

There's absolutely no acknowledgment of the fact that he's apparently decided knocking Joe around like a hockey puck is fair. Joe's not _furious_ , but he's definitely mad, and he gives Nick absolutely no warning before he charges him and knocks the ball out of his hands. Nick's half-second of surprise is totally ignored as Joe spins around and dunks the basket that ends the game.

Joe doesn't do a victory dance, but he's too busy inwardly gloating to notice that Nick's right behind him as he backs up. The nearness startles him, and something inside the obnoxious big brother part of him snaps; Joe bodily shoves Nick across the concrete of the patio, Nick so resistant it's like he's moving furniture instead of a surly teenager, to the grass. Nick falls in a way that probably bruises his ass a little.

Nick is hissing in pain, or irritation, when Joe straddles him, making sure to squirm around to get himself comfortable on Nick's thighs. He hopes he feels bony.

"What now, oh lord and master of sports?" Nick pushes at his chest, so Joe leans forward and grabs his wrists so he can't. "You know, you're not very sportsmanlike."

Nick frowns up at him, looking messy and overheated next to the freshly cut green grass, traces of moisture from the sprinklers that went on and off during the day. He seems to settle, going limp under Joe. "Get off me."

Joe pretends to consider. "No."

"I'm not kidding, Joe."

"Neither am I," Joe says cheerfully, but he narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on Nick's wrists. "Considering what a douchebag you've been, sitting on you is pretty much the mildest punishment ever."

"If I apologize will you let me up?" He's sulking even as he says it, and Joe isn't mad at him anymore; it's hard to be mad at your sweaty, ridiculous, four-armband wearing little brother when he's in the middle of an inferiority complex. It's got nothing to do with Joe. Possibly it would be worse for someone who _wasn't_ Joe.

"Maybe."

Nick sighs, thumping his head back against the grass. "I'm sorry I bumped into you. It was lame of me." He looks back at Joe, eyebrows raised. "Okay?"

Joe does let go of his wrists, but he stays perched where he is, though Nick isn't the most cushioned thing he could have chosen to sit on. "Just admit you're a sore loser and that I'm awesome and I'll let you up."

"What? No." Nick bucks up hard, nearly unseating Joe, who tilts to the side and gets a knee rammed someplace incredibly unpleasant.

"Sore," Joe says, pinning Nick's wrists again, having to chase the left one down a little since Nick's trying actively trying to evade it, "loser."

"This is ridiculous. I apologized, you – you won, whatever."

Joe's half-listening, though, because Nick's trying to wrench himself free from Joe's grip, and the pale skin on the underside of his arms is flexing, muscles shifting, and it's like that moment in the pool, only up closer.

" _Joe_ ," Nick exclaims. He's angry now, not just petulant, and Joe starts to tip with another shove of Nick's hips, but he locks his knees around Nick's waist and rides it out.

He and Kevin used to tickle Nick when he was younger – only a couple of times because it genuinely upset him, to the point of tears – but the memories of it are pretty vivid. He used to wriggle his fingers in all of the soft places on Nick, behind his knees, his armpits, around his ribs and sides. He'd sat on him a few times too, and no matter how hard Nick thrashed, Joe was unmovable. He'd barely noticed.

Now Joe is straining to keep his legs tight around him and not fall forward onto his face. And Nick is still moving, unstoppable as a wave, and Joe _knew_ he was holding back just in case someone got hurt.

He doesn't want him to hold back.

Fascinated, almost like he's outside of his own body, like he's sleepwalking. Joe lets go of Nick's wrist and pinches at pale skin untouched by the sun. Nick's mouth drops open and he makes a noise, a protest or a laugh if it tickled like Joe thinks it did.

"Joe, stop it," he says, sounding panicked, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He pinches again, but this time it's more like he's trying to grab a handful, as if he could circle Nick's arm with his hand. He can't, though; Nick is too filled out, even though Joe tries to fit his fingers in the dip between the more prominent bulge of his bicep.

Nick squirms but at least he's stopped bucking. His breathing has sped up, loud, in and out through his mouth.

"Say I'm the winner," Joe demands, but it's just a hold-over from before, momentum to keep them in the same position. He really doubts Nick will let Joe push him to the ground like this ever again. "Say it."

Nick's expression settles halfway between dazed and incredulous, like a frown wants to curve his mouth but he can't seem to make himself move it. "You won. You're the winner."

Nick's upper body does its best to lurch left when Joe scratches his fingers against his side, clumsy through the material of Nick's tanktop. A noise that Nick manages to suppress most of lights his nerves up like a match. Nick digs his teeth into his lower lip and grimaces.

"Gee," Joe says, desperately trying for sarcastic but only getting strangled, "you don't have to sound so happy about it."

Joe's pretty sure lots of people have held down their snotty little brothers and tickled them until they couldn't breathe. There isn't anything _wrong_ with it, except for the fact that it's a mercilessly dickish thing to do. They'd be grounded for it at the very most.

Only Joe'd learned not to handle Nick like that a long time ago, and when he was younger he knew it wasn't cool, but Nick giggled like nothing else he'd heard, stupid _hah hah hah_ s, each one a distinct word. He was compelled to get that out of him, and Kevin seemed to be too, up until mom read them the riot act. He felt horrible when he noticed Nick was crying and covertly wiping his face, pretending like it wasn't happening.

Remembering that, his stomach knots like he's swallowed something foul, and Joe's about to get up when Nick lets out a desperate whine and says, "Joe, get off of me, _please_."

"I'm sorry," Joe whispers, horrified, hands nowhere near touching Nick. He feels numb, shaky, body sluggishly obeying his mind's order to get up and off of Nick.

Nick closes his mouth and swallows, a click in his throat, and his head is tossed to the side so Joe can't see his expression or if he's crying.

It's a delicate process to lift himself off of Nick in a hurry without crushing him. He loses his balance a few times. Nick's breath is driven from him in a painful-sounding oof, and Joe freezes, trying to center himself.

At first he thinks it's Nick's zipper, or some weird seam, but the longer he sits there and lets it register, the more it dawns on him. That's Nick's _dick_ , a bump in his shorts that's resting under Joe's ass. A shivery, freaked out feeling starts in Joe's spine and crawls up to his shoulders, making him feel suddenly and unpleasantly cold in the summer air.

"Joe," Nick says, and it's clear he's noticed that _Joe_ noticed, because his face crumples.

"Hey, no, it's okay," Joe says shakily, trying to soothe. He doesn't know what to do; Kevin always laughed at Joe when it happened to him, or else pretended he didn't see. This is unavoidable. He's noticed Nick get uncomfortable and embarrassed-red before, and figured out why, but Nick was stealthy and ducked away like a ninja before it became totally obvious.

"No it's not." Nick sounds miserable. Joe doesn't want him to think it's wrong, which he might.

Mom and dad don't sit down and give them lectures like people seem to think they do. Joe fuzzily recalls the first time they told him about sex, and yeah, it was all about waiting for marriage, but they told him it was _natural_ and _human_ too, and they said the same thing when he got older, when those urges they talked about started being relevant. Nick probably got the same talk. But Nick... Nick's ridiculous standards for himself don't include accepting his baser urges.

"It's okay, seriously. It's normal." It sounds a lot less convincing outside of his head.

" _How_ is this okay?" Nick demands. He's getting restless again, and Joe's breath stops when Nick's movement shifts him onto his hard-on even further. "Oh my God, get off."

He's pushing up with all of his strength, and it's like when Joe's poised for the biggest drop in a rollercoaster. Something in him snaps. He leans over Nick and braces his hands on either side of his head, digging into the grass. The way it contorts his body, Nick's dick is right under his ass, like, _right_ under it, unmistakably hard, not some vague impression Joe accidentally got too close to.

It could have hurt, but the noise Nick makes sounds like something else entirely, and Joe's breathing hard, staring down at Nick. "You don't have to be embarrassed. It's just a reaction. I get like this too."

Nick purses his lips. Two or three blades of grass have managed to twine themselves in Nick's curls. Joe lets himself focus on that and not the hard rise and fall of every breath Nick takes under him. Or how good it feels to have the cushion of someone under him. "I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if you got _like this_ when I climbed on top of you," Nick says, spitting it out with pretty impressive disdain.

"I don't –" Joe starts, turning the words over in his mind, but actually he does understand, or thinks he does. In any case, he's pretty sure this wouldn't happen to Nick if it was Kevin on top of him. "You like it?"

Nick groans something, and Joe's heart feels like it's going to thud out of his chest, his dick throbbing and thickening in his shorts. He tentatively rocks his hips down in a slow grind.

It's difficult to say if the noise Nick makes, a high and clearly involuntary keen, is what makes Joe gasp, or if it's the fact that rubbing against Nick is making him hard too. The rest of the way hard. Nick's squirming again, but it's not a struggle to get up and away so much as just _up_.

"Oh," Nick says, mouth dropping open, tanktop askew and streaked with grass stains. Joe works his hips harder, wishing his jeans weren't so thick because it's hard to get friction going, and he can barely feel Nick's rigid little dick, hard-soft underneath him.

"Shh, it's okay, shh," Joe whispers, fingers curling into the grass. It's getting good, too hot too fast, his pants too tight, this maddening rub of their clothes in the way, Nick's bony hips.

"Oh, oh my God," Nick chokes, and Joe watches and can feel as his whole body locks up, head lifting from the ground. Joe doesn't even know what's happening until it's almost over and Nick starts to shudder, whimpering, eyes tightly shut.

Stunned, he sits back, trying see through the haze of turned on overheatedness he's swimming in. God, Nick shot off quick. Joe didn't; he's hard, and his boxers are sticky, but he isn't close, not like that. He can't get off that fast, he hadn't been able to since he was younger than Nick.

Joe stops breathing for a moment, too overwhelmed. Nick barely has to push him this time; Joe tumbles onto his side clumsily, blinking so everything can come into focus. Nick scrambles to his feet, clothes and hair a mess.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he stutters, not looking at Joe.

His shirt is sticking to his back. Joe's mostly aware of that, and the fact that he's irrepressibly, annoyingly hard, as Nick runs back to the house.

–

He doesn't see Nick once he's back inside the house, which gives him ample opportunity to assume the worst and start to panic. He goes straight to his room, nearly tripping over Frankie's Tonka Trucks and carelessly strewn Legos on the way. The mirror above his dresser is the first thing he sees once he closes the door – himself in it. He looks about as wrecked as Nick did, hair a sweaty mess, and what's either a sunburn or a humiliated blush all over his face and down his neck, disappearing under his collar.

He strips off his shirt and heads for the shower, trying to switch off his brain. He's lucky there are two bathrooms, because Nick's already in the other one.

–

Joe's helping mom set the table for dinner, nearly fumbling plates to the floor until she makes him do the silverware instead. He hasn't seen Nick, and he's been trying _so hard_ not to barge upstairs and – and what? Apologize? Check on him? He doesn't want Nick to feel bad about what they did, about what _Joe_ did, so he doesn't want to make it a big deal, but it's sort of the epitome of a big deal. It's entirely possible Nick doesn't want to look at Joe right now. Joe wouldn't blame him. He can barely stand existing right now.

Mom goes to get Frankie and dad, and this would be Joe's cue to go get Nick, but Nick's usually downstairs helping with dinner in the first place. Joe told mom Nick was dehydrated from all the sun. He's trying to figure out how to ask Kevin to go get Nick; maybe he'll say he has to use the bathroom, but before he can decide, Nick's sudden quiet little "hey" comes from behind and stops Joe in his tracks.

"Hey," Joe says, turning.

Nick looks normal. He looks like Nick. He's wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of jeans, scratching at his elbow. He's washed his hair and it's all in place. There's no trace of what happened earlier, not even a hint of sunburn.

"What's for dinner?" Nick asks, coming to stand by Joe at the counter and looking around to see for himself. Joe's stunned speechless, mostly by the fact that Nick's standing close enough to touch. He can smell his shampoo. "Did mom finish making the salad?"

Joe unsticks his tongue. "No, she hasn't mixed it yet."

"Okay." He goes to the fridge, and Joe watches him, totally uncomprehending as he opens the door and rifles through the bottles of salad dressing in the door. "Do we want Italian?"

"I think she said Ranch."

Nick grabs the Ranch and comes back to the counter, carefully eying the amount of dressing he pours. He's grabbed the low fat Ranch, which sucks, but Joe's too afraid to move or speak again in case Nick spooks. "Can you get the croutons for me, please?" Nick asks.

Joe's hand is shaking as he hands him the bag, and Nick's quick smile as he takes it is just the freaking icing on the bizarre cake.

"Nick, are you –"

But Frankie comes lumbering into the kitchen, mom and dad behind him, and asking Nick if he's okay is a harmless enough question to overhear, but there's no chance of Nick giving an honest answer. And Joe didn't miss the split-second look of alarm that crossed Nick's face before it disappeared.

"C'mon," Nick says, grabbing the bowl and heading to the table, but he glances back over his shoulder to make sure Joe is following.

–

A week. That's how long Joe watches Nick act like everything is normal. He plays along, with a certain amount of relief, because the alternative is worse, and partially because he doesn't know what he should do. He doesn't think he could handle Nick getting upset at him, but at the same time he knows it could be festering under the surface, or that – that he's afraid to talk to Joe about it. Afraid of _Joe_ , which is the most horrible thing he can think of.

They're at a local Jersey station, promoting an upcoming mall appearance. Kevin's gorging himself on the tray of deli snacks they've left out, and Nick is sitting next to Joe on a green couch that smells almost overwhelmingly of stale cigarette smoke. They're so close their thighs are touching, and Joe had intentionally tucked himself as close to the arm of the couch as possible. There's enough space for Kevin on Nick's other side, a whole cushion even, but Kevin's nowhere near them.

"How's your throat?" Joe asks. Nick's been complaining of a scratchy throat since yesterday afternoon. He rarely gets sick, so the whole family is super attentive. Mom's got hand sanitizer in her purse, they should really start using it more since they're in public so much. They shake a lot of hands.

"It's fine. I had some hot tea earlier."

Joe checks his watch. It's twenty minutes still until they're due to go on air. He hopes they come and get them early so he doesn't have to sit with Nick practically on top of him.

Nick's been still; his hands even at rest are usually unconsciously playing chords on his thighs, but today they're sitting his lap as dead weight. It's little things like this, Nick's tells that are invisible or near invisible to everyone else, that remind Joe just how far from normal they are, no matter what public face Nick has plastered on.

"Nick," he says, darting a glance at Kevin and dad and leaning in to keep it private. "We seriously need to talk."

He doesn't know what he expected – denial, embarrassment, anger? – but what he gets is a shrug. "We're talking now."

" _Nick_." It's instinct when he grabs at Nick; he's done it a hundred times before. Dragging him away from his guitar, randomly hugging him, grabbing his arm for attention, to make his point. But this is the first time he's touched Nick more than accidentally or incidentally in two weeks.

Nick looks down at Joe's hand on his arm and a split-second later Joe's letting him go like he's a hot poker. There's a tense second of silence, then Nick's up on his feet, tearing out of the room like dogs are after him.

Dad gives him a questioning look. "Is Nicholas all right?"

"Yeah, he, he's just nervous, his throat hurts." Joe is aware he's not making much sense, but he can't think of any plausible excuse as to why Nick would ever run from him. "I'll go check on him."

There's nothing else for him to do. His kid brother just ran away from him and Joe has to fix it. It was a fantasy to think Nick's facade of normality was anything _but_ a facade.

A few people are milling about in the hallway, and he manages to ask one of them if they saw where his brother went. They pointed to the bathrooms – so obvious. Joe expected something stealthier, a storage closet at the very least.

The bathroom's empty when Joe lets himself in, and he counts himself lucky that it is. Nick's in one of the stalls at the end. He can hear Nick shuffling around in there, his heavier than normal breathing. He hasn't latched the door close, so it's swung maybe four inches open, and Joe peers through the gap.

"Nick?"

"What?" he croaks, and Joe closes his eyes. Nick's crying. Joe tries to swallow back his immediate and selish reaction, the tears welling up and stinging, but it takes him a few long moments. "Just go away," Nick says into the silence Joe let lapse too long.

"Nicky. I'm sorry."

Nick sniffs and coughs. "Shut up." He sounds so _weary_ it's almost funny. Well, it would be funny, Nick the fourteen year old and his trials and tribulations, if Joe hadn't been the one who made him sound like that.

"Nick?" he tries again.

Tentatively, Joe pushes the stall door open so he can see more than Nick's shoulder. Nick furiously wipes at his eyes. He won't look at him, and Joe understands why, not to mention that he's the last person who should be trying to help Nick deal with this, but it still makes him feel sick.

"Do you want me to go get dad?" He's stumped for anything else to do. Nick needs somebody, and it clearly can't be Joe.

Nick literally startles, head jerking up for a split second. "No," he exclaims, sounding alarmed. "Don't bring dad in here right now."

"Okay." He waits for a moment, to see if Nick will offer something up or if something will miraculously strike him, but it doesn't. All he can see is the side of Nick's face, the way he looks so young with that suffering look on his face. It smells almost overwhelmingly of lemon antiseptic cleaner; the floors are still a little shiny with it. He focuses on that, the footprint he sees himself leave in it when he shifts some. "Listen, about what happened –"

"I don't want to talk about it." Nick's posture goes stiff and determined, closing off, and normally Joe would just poke at him until he gave in but he _can't do that_.

"I know you don't. But I did this to you and it makes me the worst brother ever. I'm sorry."

Nick laughs, which is about the last thing Joe expected, but it's this low, grim sound that has no place coming out of anyone Joe loves. "You don't even – I just need a minute, all right? I just need one minute and I'll do the interview and we can go home."

"Okay. But what happens when we're home?"

Nick's face screws up like he's taken a punch to the stomach, teeth bared in the most sudden sob Joe's ever seen. He's still processing that when Nick knocks into him, crying all the way now, and Joe doesn't know where to put his hands or if he's even allowed. Shock doesn't cover the mess of things he's feeling. Nick's so close, in a way Joe usually has to fight for, a way Nick hasn't initiated in years. They hug, sure, but Nick doesn't push his face into Joe's neck and hang on for dear life.

Nick's breath is hot and damp, stuttering with sobs, and Joe barely understands him when he speaks. "All you did was _touch me_."

Incredulous words lodge in his throat. He feels like he's missed something vital, and he pulls back from Nick as much as Nick will let him, a hand on his arm. "What?"

He's not crying as hard now; he always shut it down fast, even when he was a little kid. "I get like this and all you did was touch me."

"Get like what?" Nick's upset because he's crying? Because Joe's making him cry? Joe touched him and that's _all_ he did, like it was just a shove or a pat on the back. Most of the time he thinks he understands how Nick's mind works, but this has left him in the dust.

Nick makes an angry sound that seems louder than it is because it's close to Joe's ear. "You touched my arm and I got hard. You sat on me and I got hard. I'm still..." He trails off, no trace of tears in his voice now, just dead seriousness.

"You did?" He blurts it out before he can stop himself. It's like when he was on top of Nick and he knew exactly how not-normal it was to like feeling Nick hard underneath him and doing it anyway. The stupid warm feeling tingling in his stomach isn't in the same zipcode as normal, either; the fact that he got it from Nick talking about what Joe did to him. "That's not... You're human, I got hard too."

Nick whines and pushes himself closer to Joe, shaking again. Joe can feel it now, Nick's cock chubbed up and pushing against him, like he can't help himself, or maybe Joe's so screwed up he's imagining things. "You didn't _like it_."

"I do," Joe says, hushed, into Nick's hair. "I like it."

Nick's hips jerk the tiniest amount against Joe, involuntary motion in a tight space. Joe's dick is trapped so uncomfortably in his jeans, and it gets worse the more he thickens up. It happens so fast. "Oh," Nick whispers. He must feel it, how pulsingly hard he is. "You... Joe."

And then Nick's rubbing against his thigh, clumsy, frantic humping that feels so good even though it's not near Joe's cock.

"Nicky." Nick whimpers, and Joe wants to make him feel so good, so good he'll forget that they're sinning. He knows it will come back to him, and that Nick will absolutely murder himself over it, but he can't leave Nick with some warped memory of being alone in this.

He nuzzles down the side of Nick's face until he catches the cold shell of his ear, and he pries him away from his leg so he can rub at Nick's dick. He wants to pull it out, to see if it's as short and thick as it feels, the shape of it fitting perfectly into the cup of his palm. It's just that he shot off so fast before. He wonders if Nick learned how to draw it out, to pull back and cool off, or if he _can't_ , too young and wound up.

Joe's rubbing his fingers over where he thinks the head is, and Nick starts moaning soft, so Joe rubs harder, frantic to get him to come loud, to hear what he's doing to him. He wants Nick to spurt it all in his shorts, and it's got him so literally hot his face feels like it's burning. It's not going to take much this time, for him.

"Come on, Nick," Joe says, and he's rubbing so hard the friction of denim against his fingers is starting to really suck.

Nick wails like he's hurting. Joe imagines he can feel all that come filling up under the layers of jeans and boxers, getting his cock all sticky. He keeps touching it even when Nick groans a protest and shakes his head, but he isn't pulling away, he's just letting Joe do it to him.

"Oh, fuck." Joe tears away from Nick uses his left hand awkwardly on himself, because his right can't take any more. He uses it to help unbutton and unzip his jeans though, and the second he gets a hand on his cock he stares at Nick, who's staring back, mouth dropped open as he watches Joe fist himself. "I'm gonna," Joe says, wringing his fingers around the head and shooting off all over the band of his boxers. He sees a little of it get on the top of his jeans before his vision blurs and he's left milking the rest out.

"Oh my God," Nick says, sounding like he's far away.

His hand is covered in come, and Nick's standing there with a mess of it slippery in his shorts. He's too shaky to get some toilet paper, too shaky to do anything but try and get his breathing back under control.

They're really, really lucky no one had to pee. He's hurtled back to reality thinking that when the sound of the door swinging open makes both of them jump.

It's Kevin. "You guys in here?" He sounds worried. Joe hurriedly puts himself back into his jeans and Nick yanks toilet paper off the roll and shoves it at him. His back is to the rest of the room, and the stall door is halfway closed, but it could look bad if Kevin comes closer.

"I was sick," Nick calls out, sounding surprisingly normal. "Joe helped me."

"Are you okay? We're on the air in like four minutes."

"I'm fine. Go tell dad we'll be out in time," Nick says firmly, effectively banishing Kevin. He watches Joe toss the bundle of toilet paper into the toilet. He needs to get to a sink.

"Okay," Kevin says, and then there's the sounds of him leaving.

–

They don't have time to clean Nick up. There's barely time for Joe to wash his hands and for Nick to splash water on his face and try to make himself look remotely normal. At least he said he was sick, it would excuse most of it.

Joe smiles at the DJ and keeps close the microphone. Nick's to the side of him, so hard to ignore in his peripheral, but Joe can't look at him. He has to stay focused, because Nick's got come drying and no one can see it, no one knows it but Joe.

– FIN.


End file.
